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T'        O  i 


THREE    LAYS    OF 
MARIE   DE  FRANCE 

•I 

Ret«ld  in  Englhh  Vtrtt 
h 

FREDERICK  BLISS  LUQUIENS 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


NINKy  MOLT  AND  COMrANT 


^'  •. 


é  M*»  M.  I 


®ClA28«t732 


WK 


TO 
E,  K.  L 


s 


PREFACE 

Those  who  have  studied  the  literature  of 
medisval  France  are  often  aggrieved  by  the 
general  reader's  utter  ignorance  of  their  favor- 
ite authors.  Chaucer,  Dante,  The  Nibclungen, 
The  Cid,  are  names  familiar  to  all — but  no  one 
know,  even  the  names  of  medisval  French  poets 
or  poems. 

Such  a  grievance  is  the  present  writer's  only 
excuse  for  attempting  to  make  Marie  dc  France 
better  known  to  Anglo-Saxon  readers.  May  she 
some  day  find  a  worthier  sponsor  I 

Her  poems  are  of  the  kind  that  defy 
translation.  Poems  whose  beauty  is  due  to 
sublimity  of  thought  may  be  more  or  less 
successfully  translated,  but  those  which,  like 
hers,  are  merely  very  charming,  resemble  many 
a  pretty  woman  who  never  takes  a  good  picture. 
Therefore  I  have  retold,  not  translated. 


tI  Preface 

I  hive  uied,  however  imperfectly,  the  metre, 
vocibuliry,  and  phraseology  of  those  poemi 
which  we  most  naturally  associate  with  the 
Matter  of  Britain—"  The  Idylls  of  the  King." 
The  use  of  blank  verse  to  represent  an  original 
in  octosyllabic  couplets  may  seem  unwise  to  some, 
but  here,  also,  I  feared  that  overfaithfulness  to 
Marie  de  France  would  result  in  injustice  to  her. 
Perhaps  my  violation  of  the  letter  of  her  verse 
has  enabled  me  the  more  successfully  to  repro< 
duce  its  spirit. 

Although  my  book  is  intended  primarily  for 
those  whom  intellectual  or  esthetic  curiosity  in* 
cites  to  excursions  into  the  literatures  of  times 
and  countries  not  their  own,  I  hope  that  it  may 
also  be  useful  to  beginners  in  the  study  of  me* 
dicval  French  literature,  especially  as  an  enter* 
ing  wedge  into  the  difficulties  connected  with  the 
question  of  Marie's  Celtic  sources.  For  the 
benefit  af  such  readers  there  shall  be  added  ft 
chapter  of  bibliography— chained  at  the  end  of 
the  book,  lest  it  terrify  readers  unKientifically  in- 


Pre  F  AC  B  vii 

dined— which  mty  facilitate  further  and  Inde* 
pendent  itudy. 

It  il  a  pleasure  to  acknowledge  my  indebted* 
neii  to  Mr.  Will  Hutchini  for  many  helpful 
criticiimi,  and  to  Mr.  Huc-Mazelet  Luquieni 
for  the  lettering  on  the  cover  of  the  book. 

YAti  UllITMItTT, 


CONTENTS 

Introduction '* 

Sir  Launfal * 

The  Maiden  of  the  Ash      .      .      •  «5 

The  Lovers  Twain 45 

BiBLIOORAPHY 57 


INTRODUCTION 
I 

We  know  but  little  of  the  life  of  Mirle  de 
France.  From  hinti  given  us  in  her  own  writ* 
ings  we  are  lure  that  ihe  lived  in  the  latter  half 
of  the  twelfth  century;  that  she  was  a  French- 
woman; that  most  of  her  life,  however,  wai 
«pent  in  the  court,  then  entirely  French  in  speech 
and  spirit,  of  Henry  the  Second  of  England  i 
that  she  there  wrote  the  poems  of  which  we  shall 
speak  presently.  Of  her  personality  we  may 
judge  somewhat  from  the  nature  of  her  writings. 
They  show  us  that  she  was  a  well-educatcd 
woman,  for  besides  her  native  tongue  she  knew 
Latin  and  English,  and  a  bit  of  Breton  and 
Welsh.  This  intellectuality  impresses  us;  an* 
other  quality,  womanly  refinement,  wins  us. 
Although  her  poems  are  not  entirely  proof 
•gainst  the  expurgatorial  pen  of  to-day — times 
have  changed  too  much — there  is  not,  from 


X      Lays  of  Marie  de  France 

her  first  to  her  lait  line,  the  ilighteit  lem- 
blance  of  freedom  for  freedom'i  sake.  We 
know,  laitly,  what  her  public  thought  of  her  ai 
•n  Ruthoreii,  for  we  find  «n  over-ierlouily 
minded  writer  of  a  little  later  than  her  time 
complnining  that  the  lords  and  ladiei  of  Eng- 
land  and  France  love  better  to  read  the  layi  of 
"  dame  Marie  "  than  the  livci  of  holy  lainti— 
in  unintentional,  but  all  the  more  convincing, 
teitimonial  to  her  popularity. 

With  this,  however,  we  have  laid  all  that 
we  are  able  to  say  of  Marie's  life.  We  are 
nowhere  told  whether  she  was  of  noble  birth; 
whether  she  was  prosperous;  whether  she  was 
married.  We  have  no  grounds  for  imagining 
—as  one  always  does  of  famous  women— that 
she  was  fair  to  look  upon.  We  are  not  even 
certain  that  her  contemporaries  called  her,  ai 
we  do,  Marie  de  France;  scholan  have  manu- 
factured the  name  out  of  a  line  of  her  writings: 
"  Marie  ai  num,  ai  lui  de  France  "— *'  Marie  il 
my  name,  and  I  am  of  France." 


Introduction  xi 

Her  writings— nil  in  French  and  all  In  verie 
— were  three:  a  collection  of  about  one  hun- 
dred fablci  in  the  y'Msopic  manner;  twelve  lO' 
called  "  Breton  Lnyi,"  and  a  poem  entitled 
/•The  Purgatory  of  Saint  Potrick."  Theie 
three  worki  have  been  handed  down  to  ui  in 
rnedioival  manuscripti,  and  well  edited  by  mod- 
ern scholars.  Scholars  agree  that  the  three  were 
all  written  during  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth 
century,  but  they  disagree  as  to  their  exact 
dates,  and  also  as  to  the  order  in  which  they 
followed  one  another.  Unless  entirely  new  evi- 
dence is  discovered,  the  question  will  probably 
hever  be  satisfactorily  settled. 
I  There  is  no  disagreement,  however,  as  to  the 
Relative  value  of  the  three.  The  Fables,  it  is 
true,  are  well  written  and  entertaining;  the  Pur- 
gatory is  not  uninteresting;  but  the  Breton  Lays 
are  immortal.  With  the  passing  centuries,  said 
Goethe,  they  grow  ever  more  charming  and  more 
(dear—-"  anmutiger  und  lieber."  Because  of  this 
iiurpaiiing  merit  of  the  Lays  we  shall  confine 


xii    Lays  op  Marib  db  Francs 
ourielvei  in  thii  imall  book,  which  ii  on\y  i 
•ort  of  letter  of  introduction  written  by  ui  for 
our  twelfth*ccntury  friend,  to  the  explanation 
and  interpretation  of  them  alone. 

II 

The  Lays  are  twelve  in  number.  They  are 
narrative  poems,  varying  in  length — the  ihort* 
eat  containi  ii8  lines,  the  longest  1,184.  They 
are  all  love-stories.  They  are  all  of  a  romantic 
nature;  though,  as  we  shall  see,  in  varying  de< 
grees.  They  are  almost  all  Celtic,  in  the  sense 
that  Tennyson's  "  Idylls  of  the  King"  are  so; 
that  is,  Celtic  traditions  recast  in  non-Celtic 
molds. 

In  order  to  judge  of  Marie's  poetic  genius 
we  must  understand  what  the  medieval  Celtic 
material  was,  and  how  she  handled  it.  The 
subject  is  of  interest  not  only  to  students  of 
French  literature,  but  also,  inasmuch  as  medi< 
cval  Celtism  has  come  down  to  our  day  through 
various  channels,  to  many  others  i  to  Tennyson- 


Introduction  xiii 

loveri,  for  instance,  iceking  the  ultimate  lourcei 
of  the  Idyll  stories;  to  Wagnerinns  desirous  of 
knowing  whence  cnme  Lohengrin,  whence  Pnr* 
cival;  to  students  of  painting  curious  as  to  the 
motives  of  Edwin  Abbey's  "  Quest  of  the 
Holy  Grail." 

The  plan  of  our  discussion  will  be  as  fol* 
lows:  since  the  Lays  were,  as  already  intimated, 
but  a  small  fraction  of  a  general  Celtism  of 
Marie's  day,  we  shall  first  draw  an  outline  of 
the  larger  movement,  against  which  as  a  back* 
ground  the  individuality  and  the  value  of  her 
Celtism  will  stand  out  in  the  proper  relief. 

First  of  all,  then,  why  did  mcdiicvnl  French 
writers  turn  Celtists?  About  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century  French  literature  was  In  a 
critical  state,  near  unto  death  from  utter  lack 
of  wholesome  nourishment.  All  the  meat  had 
long  since  been  extracted  from  the  themes  of 
national  tradition;  poets  and  audiences  alike 
were  beginning  to  tire  of  tales  of  Charlemagne 
ind  of  Roland  and  of  their  ions  and  grandioni 


xiv  Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
and  great-grandsons,  and  of  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers  and  great-grandfathers.  A  newer 
kind  of  poetry,  imitating  pseudo-classical  orig- 
inals, hardly  appealed  to  the  masses;  nor  in- 
deed could  true  poets  find  inspiration  in  the  task 
of  recoloring  faded  A'lncases  and  dim  Dldos. 
So  some  writer,  or  perhaps  several  writers  at 
the  same  time,  acting  on  one  of  those  mysterious 
common  impulses  which  often  affect  men's 
thoughts,  conceived  the  idea  of  turning  to  Cel- 
tic tradition  for  fresh  material;  and  for  over  a 
century  Celtism  ruled  French  writing. 

But  how,  in  days  when  the  study  of  folk- 
lore was  not  yet  invented,  did  all  these  Celtic 
stories  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  French 
writers?  Undoubtedly  through  strolling  Cel* 
tic  minstrels,  who  had  begun  to  wander  abroad 
at  least  as  early  as  the  eleventh  century.  For 
the  latter  half  of  the  following  century  we  have 
certain  proof  of  their  presence  in  non-Celtic  ter* 
ritory,  Inasmuch  as  many  French  writers  of  that 
period  mention  them  explicitly.  For  the  eleventh 


Introduction  xv 

we  have  no  absolute  proof,  but  just  after  its  close 
we  find  such  plain  traces  of  the  prevalence  of 
their  stories— for  example,  the  curious  fact  that 
Italian  parents  were  already  naming  their  sons 
Arthur  and  Gawain — that  we  may  be  sure  they 
had  begun  their  wanderings  at  least  several  dec* 
ades  before.  And  it  was  but  natural  that  they 
should  travel  abroad,  for  not  only  were  they 
bold  for  such  venture  because  of  the  traditional 
high  repute  of  their  calling— have  not  the  names 
of  Irish  bards  come  down  to  us  coupled  with 
names  of  kings?— but,  furthermore,  their  pro* 
fession  had  become  overcrowded,  as  witness  me* 
diteval  Welsh  laws  forbidding  it  to  any  but 
freemen,  and  their  wares  were  becoming  a  drug 
in  the  home  marketi. 

I  have  been  using  the  broad  term  Celtic  in 
■peaking  of  these  strolleri.  May  the  adjective 
be  narrowed?  It  Is  hardly  possible  that  there 
were  among  them  any  Irish  gleemen,  for  only 
natives  of  the  bordeMandi  of  Celtic  territory, 
who  ipoke  two  languages,  were  capable  of 


xvl   Lays  of  Marie  de  France 

•muling  foreign  ludicncei.  But  were  they  then 
VVelih?  or  Breton?  or  of  both  nationalltiei? 
If  lome  of  their  itorici  were  prcicrved  in  the 
form  in  which  they  told  them,  the  problem  could 
be  eaiily  lolved,  for  the  Welih  and  Breton  dia- 
lecti  of  the  eleventh  century  differed  coniidcr^ 
ibly.  But  not  a  lingle  one  of  them  ii  lo  pre* 
■erved,  doubtleii  becouie  none  wai  ever  con* 
•igned  to  writing;  in  the  eleventh  century  not 
much  but  Latin  wai  coniidered  worthy  of  parch* 
ment,  and  later  there  wai  no  incentive  to  guard 
what  French  literature  had  appropriated.  Thii 
road  being  cloied,  let  ui  try  othen.  Firit,  an 
i  priori  argument.  Brittany'i  more  central  geo* 
graphical  lituation,  and,  too,  the  fact  that  the 
•econd  tongue  of  the  Bretoni  wai  French,  then 
the  courtly  and  literary  ipeech  of  almoit  all  the 
countriei  of  Europe,  would  render  likely  i 
Breton  preponderance  in  numben;  but  at  the 
•tme  time  It  ii  very  unlikely  that  the  Welih 
should  not  follow  to  lome  extent  the  tempting 
extmple  of  their  couiint— should  not  travel  it 


Introduction  xvii 

lent  II  far  ai  the  French  court  of  England. 
Secondly,  this  a  priori  argument  ii  supported 
by  careful  itudy  of  the  tradition!  as  presented 
in  the  French  adaptations.  We  find  that  the 
great  majority  of  them  have  a  Breton  tinge- 
Breton  heroes,  for  example,  and  Drcton  geog» 
raphy— that  some,  however,  have  just  as  cer* 
tainly  a  Welsh  tinge.  Lastly,  let  ui  consult 
those  mediflîval  French  writers  who  mention 
Celtic  minstrels  and  their  stories.  Their  state- 
ments  at  first  disconcert  us,  for  they  often  speak 
of  "  matière  de  Dreiague,"  and  of  its  dissemi- 
nation by  •'  lei  Brelons,"  but  never  use  in  this 
connection  the  word  which  means  ff^ehh.  The 
definitcness  of  this  information  is,  however,  only 
apparent,  for  in  the  Middle  Ages  the  words 
"  Bretagne  "  and  "  Breton  "  were  exceedingly 
indefinite  in  signification.  We  will  refrain  from 
the  tedious  explanation  which  a  full  understand- 
ing of  this  problem  of  terminology  would  re- 
quire, and  merely  itate  that  theie  wordi  might 
be  applied  either  to  twelfth-century,  continental 


xriii  Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
Brittany,  or  to  sixth-century  Britaiit,  the  insular 
•bode  of  the  Briions.  Furthermore,  in  the 
phrase  "  matière  de  Bretagne,"  the  preposition 
de,  which  may  mean  either  from  or  about,  is  a 
last  straw  of  ambiguity.  So,  when  mediaeval 
writers  use  that  phrase,  we  are  generally  in 
doubt  IS  to  whether  they  mean  material  from 
Brittany,  or  about  Britain,  or  vice  versa,  or 
both.  Indeed,  when  we  gather  and  compare  all 
of  their  statements,  so  great  is  the  resultant  con- 
fusion that  we  arc  tempted  to  attribute  it  to 
an  ignorance  on  the  point  at  issue  as  great  as 
our  own.  Their  testimony  is  therefore  value- 
less in  itself,  and  does  not  warrant  the  conclu- 
lion  that  there  were  no  Welsh  minstrels  at  all. 
It  is  not  entirely  without  value,  however,  for 
it  confirms  the  conclusion  which  we  reached, 
I  moment  ago,  by  two  other  lines  of  argument 
— that  the  Breton  minstrels  far  outnumbered 
the  Welsh.  From  this  point  of  view,  indeed, 
the  unfair  terminology  of  the  twelfth-century 
writers  is  not  surprising  i  they,  in  thus  ignoring 


Introduction  xix 

the  Welsh  minstrels,  were  no  more  careless  than 
we  of  to-day  in  a  matter  quite  analogous,  for 
do  we  not  assume  that  all  our  itinerant  minstrels 
are  Italians,  although  some  of  them  are  un* 
doubtcdly  Sicilians,  or  even  Corsicans?  So  the 
three  roads  we  have  taken  all  lead  to  the  same 
end,  and  we  may  conclude,  finally,  that  the  dis* 
leminators  of  Celtic  tradition  were  both  Breton» 
ind  Welshmen,  but  chiefly  the  former.* 

Having  thus  settled,  as  well  as  we  may,  the 
nationality  of  the  minstrels,  let  us  inquire  into  the 
nature  of  their  stories.  Here  wc  shall  not  need 
to  differentiate  between  Breton  and  Welsh;  al- 
though their  stories  were  tinged  differently,  as 
we  have  said  above,  the  warp  and  woof  were 

•The  medlBval  phraie  "millire  de  Brctigne,"  the  e«- 
■ipcrttlnR  Indeflnllene»  of  which  hia  been  touched  upon 
In  thtt  parfgriph,  hit  been  idopttd  by  French  literary 
hliiorlini  of  to-day  to  connote  the  turn  of  Celtic  trtdltloni 
preraletK  In  Europe  during  the  Middle  Agfi|  and  En|' 
llih  writers  on  the  lubject  uh  In  turn  the  phraie  "  matter 
of  Britain."  The  term  hai  become  too  unlvereal  irtr  to 
be  ditplantcd,  but  wc  ihould  always  bear  In  mind  thai 
it  really  meani  Ctlllt  material. 


XX    Lays  op  Marie  de  France 

the  lime,  for  the  fabrics  had  been  lirit  woven 
when  Breton  and  Welsh  were  one  people.  In 
ipite  of  the  fact,  already  pointed  out,  that  not 
■  tingle  one  of  these  tales  has  come  down  to 
ui  in  its  originol  Breton  or  Welsh  form,  we 
have  two  ways  of  inferring  in  regard  to  them. 
In  the  first  place,  we  are  helped  by  Welsh  monu- 
icripts  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centu* 
riei;  these  are  veritable  itore*housc8  of  retold 
•tories,  which  scholars  have  been  able,  if  not 
to  refashion  into  their  exact  originals,  at  least 
to  rcimagine  in  the  broad  outlines  and  approxi* 
mate  characteristics  of  those  originals.  Sec* 
ondly,  we  may  infer  much  from  medieval 
French  literature,  not  only  from  its  many  re* 
marks  about  these  stories,  but  especially  from 
its  many  adaptations  of  them.  A  large  part 
of  them,  then,  were  vague  and  exaggerated  hli* 
toricti  memories  of  the  sixth  century,  that  fatal 
period  during  which  the  Britons,  though  fighting 
under  such  chieftains  is  Arthur,  could  not  stem 
the  tide  of  Anglo*Sixon  Invision,  and  wert 


iNTRODUCTION  XXI 

finally  driven  into  the  corners  of  Enjiland  and 
acrosi  the  channel  into  Drittany.  Others  pre* 
sent  striking  parallels  to  Irish  traditions,  and 
must  be,  therefore,  remnants  of  early  Celtic 
mythology  and  history,  incorporated  durinR 
that  period  when  Gaels  and  Cymri  were  inter* 
mingled.  These  two  masses  of  tradition,  of  an 
heroic  and  martial  character,  in  greater  part  the 
gleanings  of  battle-fields,  were  interwoven 
through  and  through  with  sprigs  of  humble 
folk'lore,  plucked  along  quiet  waysides  and  by 
peasant  doorsteps;  and  all,  finally,  was  imprrg* 
nated  with  that  peculiar  Celtic  charm  which 
baffles  definition,  but  which  everyone  hat  felt 
at  least  indirectly,  whether  through  Malory  or 
through  Tennyson,  or  through  any  other  of  the 
great  Celtists  of  literature.  We  may  add,  for 
the  lake  uf  completeness,  that  the  minstrels' 
repertoires  Included  i  few  non-Celtic  itoriei, 
•ome  of  them  thoroughly  Celtixed,  some  of 
them  hardly  at  all,  according  ii  they  hid  been 
appropriated  earlier  or  later. 


jwii    Lays  of  Marie  dk  Franc r 

A»  wc  have  inferred  the  content,  »o  we  may 
also  infer  the  form  of  these  «tories,  and  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  presented.  The 
minitrcli  recited  them  in  proie,  but  interspersed 
them  with  bits  of  lyric  poetry  dealing  with  im- 
portant moments  of  the  action,  and  sung  to  the 
•ccompnniment  of  some  musical  instrument,  Rcn* 
erally  the  Celtic  "  rote,"  a  sort  of  small  harp. 
These  lyrici  were  called  by  a  name  which  the 
medieval  French  adopted  in  the  Francixed  form 
"  lai,"  and  which  we  in  turn  have  Anglicir.ed 
into  "  lay."  As  to  the  lanRiingc  employed,  the 
narrative  portions  were  undoubtedly  recited  in 
the  speech  of  the  audience,  but  the  lays,  which 
were  prir.ed  especially  for  their  music,  were 
•unit  with  their  original  words,  just  as  to-day 
foreign  songs  are  generally  sung  without  regard 
to  the  linguistic  ability  of  listeners. 

The  stories  and  songs  of  the  Welsh  and 
Breton  minstrels  were  not,  however,  the  only 
form  in  which  Celtic  material  was  prevalent  in 
France  before  French  writers  adopted  it.  Their 


Introduction  xxlil 

performances  were  rivalled  in  popularity  by  the 
imitations  of  French  strollers  called  *'  conteors  *' 
(recounters))  entertainers  of  a  lower  order  than 
any  other  of  the  literary  purveyors  of  the  time. 
Not  one  of  these  imitations  has  come  down  to  us 
—probably  none  was  ever  given  right  of  parch- 
ment— and  we  must  infer  their  relation  to  their 
originals  as  we  infer  all  else  in  regard  to  the 
*'  conteors,"  from  hints  given  us  by  contem- 
poraneous authors,  They  reproduced  with  the 
utmost  freedom  the  prose  portions  of  the  pro- 
ductions  of  the  minstrels,  even  intermingling 
with  them  parts  of  non-Celtic  stories  which  they 
had  appropriated  from  elsewhere.  Their  pro- 
ductions. In  contradistinction  to  those  of  the 
Celtic  minstrels,  might  be  called  pseudo-Celtic 
material. 

Such,  then,  was  the  Celtic  material.  In  part 
genuine,  In  part  spurious,  which  offered  Itself  to 
twelfth-century  French  writers  seeking  new 
themes.  They  seized  upon  It  eagerly.  Nor  did 
they  distinguish  between  the  genuine  and  the 


xxiv    Lays  or  Marie  de  '■ 
•purioui;  with  typiril  medi(cvi* 
■cumcn,  they  used  it  ail     '^' 
they  rebuilt  crumbling  Frenck 

In  doinff  thii,  however,  they  ill  >.  iii.w^ui  ex- 
ception wrought  two  CMcntial  chnnBci  in  their 
m«tcrinl.  Firit,  they  ncRlectcd  entirely  the  lyric 
clement  of  their  originilii  Indeed,  their  ipurioui 
originali  prnbnhly  contained  none.  Doubtlcii 
it  teemed  futile  to  attempt  to  reproduce  the 
layii  the  beauty  of  which  wai  in  their  Celtic 
muiic.  Secondly— and  here  again  their  pneudo* 
Celtic  originali  had  undoubtedly  anticipated 
them — they  Krancifcd  their  material  at  much  ai 
poiiible;  cuitomi  and  coitumei,  wayi  of  think> 
ing  and  ipeaking,  all  are  no  longer  Celtic,  but 
French.  For  thii,  however,  we  must  not  blame 
them  too  harshly.  It  was  not  alone  their  mediir* 
va!  egoism  which  caused  them  to  do  this;  surely 
•ome  divinity,  présider  over  things  literary,  hat 
decreed  that  Celtic  tradition  should  ever  be  thus 
de<Celtized,  for  the  modem  Celtist,  although 
he  usually  makei  his  heroes  more  Celtic  than 


Introduction  xxv 

theiri  «i  to  the  outer  man,  U  apt  to  tin  juit  ai 
much  in  regard  to  ihe  inner;  Tennyion,  for  ex- 
ample, il  often  occuicd  of  havins  turned  King 
Arthur  into  in  Lngliih  country-gcntlemon  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  But,  after  all,  they  were 
unable  to  obicure  entirely  the  Celtic  color  of 
tbdr  original*,  of  which  even  a  little  ii  a  power- 
ful factor  fur  benuty,  ond  their  work  ii  a»  much 
entitled  to  the  adjective  Celtic  ai  are  the 
"  Idylli  of  the  King,"  the  only  difference  being 
that  the  modern  poct'i  Celtiim  wai  conicioui, 
theiri  unconicioui. 

Although  the  two  traiti  Juit  let  forth  char- 
acterize all  mcdiirval  French  Celtiiti,  In  other 
regardi  they  differ  radically.  In  the  light  of 
theie  differencei  their  writingi  fall  into  three 
groupi:  the  "  romani  en  ven,"  the  "  romani  en 
proie,"  and  the  "  laii,"  of  which  lait  type  Marie 
wai  probably  the  inventor  and  certainly  the  chief 
exponent.*    Since  the  '*  romani,"  both  thoie  in 

*Bnldn  ih«  Lajr*  of  Mirif  df  Franct,  tbtrt  an  •  icert 
or  M  bx  0thir  writtri.    Ioim  of  thiN  einnet  bt  eilltd 


mm 


xxvi    Lays  of  Marie  de  France 

verie  and  those  in  proic,  were  already  in  exiit< 
ence  when  Marie  wrote  her  Layi,  wc  muit,  in 
order  to  complete  the  background  ngainit  which 
her  originality  may  itand  out  ai  clearly  ai  pot* 
■iblC)  undcriiand  their  cisential  characteriitici. 
The  "  romani  en  veri  "  were  narrative 
poemi,  at  leait  four  or  five  thousand  lines  in 
length,  written  in  octosyllabic  couplets.  Their 
authors  used  the  Celtic  material  in  much  the 
same  manner  that  authors  of  the  modern  his* 
torica)  novel  handle  their  basal  data:  that  is, 
with  great  freedom  and  elaboration.  Of  their 
methods  of  elaboration  it  is  impossible  to  give 
an  example  without  quoting  at  too  great  length. 
Whoever  desires  an  illustration— and  a  few 
hours  of  pleasure  besides— may  read  the  Welsh 
tile,  "  The  Lady  of  the  Fountain,"  in  L«dy 

Brtton  Lajri,  Initmuch  ■(  thtjr  not  only  coniiin  m  C«ltJe 
iBiitrlil,  but  art  not  crtn  ■icribed  by  thtir  luthori  to  Cdtte 
mlnitrtli;  ilnct,  howfvtr,  they  irt  eilltd  "lili"  In  tht 
rnfdlvvtl  minuKrIpi»,  It  Mcrai  nKHiiry  to  elm  thtni  with 
tbt  Brtton  Layi,  and  icholari  hart  colntd  th«  Inclutir*  ttrm 
"  Narratlrt  Layt."  Of  all  tht  NarratUa  Lay»  thart  art  only 
a  ftw  which  peiteM  literary  ralua,  and  not  any  which  peaataa 
tiM  chtna  of  iha  Bratoo  Layt  of  Marit  dt  Praoea. 


Introduction  xxvil 

Charlotte  Gucst'i  translation  of  the  "  Mabino* 
gion,"  ond  follow  thii  with  W.  VV.  Ncwcll'i 
translation  of  '*  Yvain,"  b  poem  by  the  greatest 
of  French  Celtists,  Chrétien  de  Troyes.  Doth 
stories  are  retellings  of  the  s*me  Welsh  orig- 
inal; whereas,  however,  the  Welsh  retcller  elabo* 
rated  but  little,  Chretien,  by  inserting  new  inci* 
dents,  by  dwelling  on  interesting  episodes,  espe* 
cially  by  recounting  not  only  the  acts  of  his 
heroes  and  heroines,  but  also  their  thoughts, 
many  times  multiplied  his  material.  As  to  the 
other  characteristic  of  their  use  of  the  "  matière 
de  Bretagne,"  deliberate  alteration  as  contra- 
distinct  from  mere  elaboration,  we  can  cite  no 
more  striking  nor  more  important  instance  than 
their  arbitrary  introduction  of  King  Arthur  into 
all  of  their  poems,  whether  or  no  their  originals 
had  any  connection  with  him.  It  would  take  us 
too  far  afield  to  explain  the  origins  of  that  won- 
derful figure  of  literature— King  Arthur;  be- 
iidei,  they  are  unsurpassably  explained  in  Pro- 
fcMor  Maynadier'i  book,  "  The  Arthur  of  the 


xxviiî  Lavi  op  Marie  de  France 

English  Pocti."  Suffice  it  to  lay  that  thii  brave 
ciptiin  of  the  sixth  century  woke  up  one  morn* 
Ing — in  the  pogci  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth'i 
•'Iliitorio  Rcgurr.  Dritanninc,"  written  in  1136 
—to  find  himicif  famoui.  Through  Geoffrey, 
probably,  he  paiscd  into  the  "  romans,"  and 
there  became  no  less  powerful  and  omnipresent 
than  Charlemagne  had  been  in  the  old  "  Chan- 
ions  de  Geste." 

The  "  romans  en  prose  "  were  long,  im- 
measurably long  prose  compilations  of  Celtic 
•toriei.  The  component  parts  of  each  compila- 
tion generally  dealt  with  the  same  hero— thus 
we  have  the  so-called  "  Lancelot  en  prose,"  the 
"  Merlin  en  prose,"  and  so  forth— but  the 
whole  showed  no  co-ordination  of  material,  nor 
my  unity  of  movement.  But  if  the  "  romana 
en  proie  "  thus  differed  from  the  "  romani  en 
yen  "  in  externals,  they  resembled  them 
closely  in  ipirit;  their  authori  showed  exactly 
the  lime  freedom  in  handling  their  data,  and 
the  same  methodi  of  elaboration,  ai  the  authors 


Introduction  xxIx 

of  whom  we  have  already  ipoken.  The  popu- 
larity of  the  pro«e  "  romans,"  by  the  way, 
proved  more  lasting  than  that  of  those  in  verse, 
and  they  were  the  vast  storehouses  which  for 
yean  furnished  foreign  writers— Sir  Thomas 
Malory,  for  example — with  Celtic  material. 

Our  background  is  at  last  fairly  "  laid  in,"  ai 
artists  say.  But,  before  outlining  upon  it 
Marie's  individuality,  we  need  to  shut  oil  a  ccr* 
tain  annoying  light  which  shines  upon  our  can' 
vas  from  an  unfortunate  angle.  I  mean  the 
fact  that  Marie  called  her  poems  '*  lays,"  which 
immediately,  and  naturally,  reminds  one  of  the 
lyrics  which  the  Breton  and  Welsh  minstrels 
had  called  by  that  name.  There  Is,  however,  no 
direct  connection  between  their  lays  and  those 
of  Marie;  she,  tike  all  her  contemporaries,  neg* 
lected  entirely  the  lyric  portions  of  her  orig* 
inalsi  her  poems  are  purely  narrative.  Further* 
more,  they  were  intended  to  be  read,  not  sung. 
It  U  therefore  hard  to  explain  this  inomaloui 
term.     Perhipi  French  audiencei,  having  to 


XXX    Lays  of  Marie  de  France 

often  heard  the  minstrels  sing  their  lays  in  con' 
ncction  with  their  prose  narrations,  applied  the 
name  to  the  whole  performance,  then  to  the 
prose  alone  when  recounted  by  some  "  contcor." 
In  that  case  its  adoption  by  Marie  would  not  have 
been  unnatural.  Perhaps  Marie,  at  a  loss  how 
to  name  her  new  poetic  form,  called  it  after 
the  songs  which  had  first  attracted  her  attention 
to  the  Celtic  traditions — she  once  speaks  of  hav- 
ing enjoyed  the  good  music  of  a  certain  lay  of 
the  minstrels.  In  any  case,  the  application  of 
the  term  to  narrative  poems  was  unfortunate, 
for  the  word  continued  also  in  its  original  and 
legitimate  use— even  in  mediatval  French  lit- 
erature  certain  lyrics  were  called  "laia"— and 
the  resultant  confusion  has  lasted  down  to  the 
present  day,  as  witness  our  dictionaries,  which 
uy  in  one  tnd  the  same  breath  that  t  lay  is  a 
•hort  narrative  poem  and— a  lyric. 

To  prepare  our  background  has  been  a  long 
task;  to  paint  upon  it  Marie's  individuality, 
which  wM  striking,  and  not  complicated,  will 


Introduction  xxxi 

take  but  a  moment.  Like  all  medieval  French 
Celtists,  she  Francized  her  originals,  and  neg« 
Iccted  their  lyric  element;  like  the  writers  of 
the  verse  "  romans  "  she  used  octosyllabic  coup- 
lets. But  she  adopted  neither  of  the  principles 
which  we  found  to  be  essentially  characteristic 
of  both  schools  of  "  roman  "-writers — freedom 
and  elaboration.  On  the  contrary,  she  told  her 
stories  faithfully;  to  use  her  own  words,  she 
told  each  "  selon  le  conte  que  je  sais."  Therein 
lies  her  Individuality  as  a  mediirval  French 
Celtist— in  fidelity  to  her  material. 

If,  however,  Marie  had  retold  the  stories  of 
the  Breton  and  Welsh  minstrels  in  a  spirit  of 
servile  imitation,  her  principle  of  fidelity  would 
have  been  dearly  bought.  We  find  the  key  to 
her  method  in  two  sentences  taken  from  the  Lays 
themselves  :  as  to  a  certain  Lay  she  says,  "  Plusur 
le  m'unt  cunté  ("Several  have  told  it  to 
me  ")  ;  and  as  to  another,  that  the  will  tell  it 
"  si  cum  jeo  entent  la  vérité,"  which  we  may 
translate,  '*  ■•  I  understand  the  true  version 


xxxii    Lays  of  Marif.  de  France 

to  be."  She  endeavored  to  be  faithful,  then, 
not  to  one  of  the  lèverai  vcriioni  in  which 
each  Celtic  itory  must  have  been  prevalent, 
but  to  the  story  itself,  to  the  story  as  told 
by  its  original  teller.  When,  however,  we 
examine  her  poems  carefully,  we  find  that 
she  must  have  naively  considered  form — 
the  very  quality  in  which  mcdiœval  Celtic  art 
WM  most  wanting — to  be  the  criterion  of 
genuineness.  Therefore  her  versions  were 
less  genuine  than  those  she  was  endeavoring  to 
correct.  This  very  misconception,  however, 
saved  her  poetic  reputation,  for  although  she 
lowered  the  Celtic  coloring,  and  lessened  the 
Celtic  imagination,  of  her  originals,  she  gave  to 
those  originals— in  compensation,  as  it  were — 
the  beauty  of  form.  And  that  her  sense  of  form  \ 
wii  ilmoit  infallible  li  proved  by  this  ;  although  1 
•he  told  Celtic  itoriea  more  limply— in  lower  ' 
terms,  one  might  lay — than  any  poet  hai  ever 
done  before  or  lince,  ihe  nevertheleii  ichiered 
Inmiortility  thereby.  ' 


Introduction  xxxiii 

III 
Of  the  twelve  Lays,  I  have  chosen  for  thii 
book  those  which,  taken  together,  may  lead  to 
the  fullest  appreciation  of  our  poetess.  They 
•re  not  the  best  three — the  merit  of  the  twelve 
!•  too  even  to  allow  of  comparison  to  that  ex* 
tent— but  they  are  certainly  among  the  best. 
They  show,  furthermore,  the  versatility  of  her 
narrative  talent.  "  Sir  Launfal  *'  is  typical  of 
those  of  the  twelve  which  are  in  the  nature  of 
fairy  stories.  *'  The  Maiden  of  the  Ash  "  rep- 
resents several  which  are  almost  realistic. 
"  The  Lovers  Twain  "  represents  still  others, 
which  combine  the  traits  of  the  two  aforesaid 
classes,  inasmuch  as  the  possible  events  therein 
related  shimmer  in  an  atmosphere  of  faerie,  ren* 
dering  ui  incapable  of  deciding  whether  to  call 
them  itoriei  of  real  life  or  fairy  talei. 


SIR  LAUNFAL 

My  lords,  the  Breton  minstrels  sing  i  lay 
Of  one  called  Launfal.   Thus  the  story  runs:— 

What  time  the  rebel  Scots  and  Picts  o*e^ 

stepped 
The  border  into  Logres,  and  spread  war 
Through  Arthur's  realm,  that  high  and  cour> 

teous  King 
Went  northward,  and  established  in  Carlisle 
Mis  summer's  court.    There  held  he  splendid 

sway. 
Bestowing  bounteous  favors  on  the  knights 
Who  made  his  Table  Round,  guerdoning  them 
With  wide-spread  lands  and  love  of  ladiei  fair. 

But  there  was  one  who  sat  in  Arthur's  hall 
Yet  knew  not  Arthur's  bounties,  having  come 
But  lately  to  the  court  from  over  aeui 


a     Lays  op  Marie  de  France 
A  king's  first  ion,  but  what  availed  hii  name, 
Far  from  his  kindred,  lone  in  a  strange  land? 
Or  what  availed  his  proven  knightlihood? 
For  many  envied  him,  and  slandered  him, 
And  Arthur,  hearing,  miscsteemed  his  worth. 
He,  all  his  substance  spent,  too  proud  to  beg 
For  royal  favor,  lived  in  penury 
And  lonely  tears.    There  is  no  crueller  grief 
Than  to  be  friendless  in  a  foreign  land. 

Upon  a  mom  Sir  l4iunfal~thui  wai  called 
The  unhappy  knight—rode  forth  beyond  the 

wall 
Which  compassed  the  drear  town,  thinking  to 

find 
Some  solace  in  the  fields  of  June,  some  joy 
Where  unconstrained  the  gladsome  river  ran. 
The  horse  he  rode,  a  meagre,  shufHing  jade 
Lent  by  a  pitying  host— for  his  own  iteed 
Had   long   ere   this   been   lold— wai   weary 

straight. 
And  faltered.    So,  diimounting,  he  made  Ioom 


Sir  Launpal  3 

The  tattered  traps,  and  left  the  nag  to  roll 
Amid  the  meadow;  then,  folding  hit  cloak 
Beneath  his  head,  laid  him  among  the  flowen, 
So  lorrowful  he  gat  no  joy  from  aught. 

Ai  thui  he  lay,  watching  acroii  hit  teari 

The  ihimmering  stream,  along  its  banks  he  iiw 
Two  maidens  moving.    Never  had  he  known 
Fairer  than  they,  nor  ever  richer  garb 
Than  their  dark'Crimson  tunics.    Straight  they 

came 
To  where  he  lay,  and  he  arose  and  stood, 
Awaiting  their  command.     Who  spake  and 

laid: 
"  Sir  Launfal,  us  our  gracious  lady  sendSi 
Our  lady  fair,  to  bring  you  unto  her. 
Then  hasten  I    She  attends  Impatiently." 
He,  marvelling,  followed  where  they  led,  and 

found 
A  silk  pavilion  rich  beyond  all  word- 
Not  Queen  Semlramis  of  old  might  buy 
One  tingle  flap  thereof!  even  the  cordi 


4     Lays  or  Marie  dc  France 

And  tenting-pini  were  priceleii.    And  within 
A  moiden  lay,  whoic  beauty  far  lurpoiied 
The  flower  of  the  lily,  or  the  roie 
New  opened  in  the  joyful  lummertide. 
She  lay  upon  a  couch  whoie  covcrleti 
A  cattle  could  not  overweigh  in  worth, 
And  o'er  her  liiiome  grace  an  ermine  cloak, 
With  Alexandrine  purple  lined,  wai  flung 
Unheedingly,  nor  hindering  all  the  gleam 
Of  ihoulden  whiter  than  the  hawthorn-flower. 

Then  paused  the  knight  with  gentle  courtesy 
Until  the  beckoned  him  before  her  couch, 
And  ipake  him  thui:  "  Launfal,  for  thee  I  come 
From  fairyworld,  where  lie  the  lands  I  rule, 
And  if  thou  provest  brave  and  courteous 
As  thou  dost  seem,  no  king  of  the  wide  earth 
Was  ever  happier,  for  I  love  thee,  friend." 
And  Launfal  looked— and  through  their  joined 

eyes 
Swift  from  her  heart  to  his  quivered  a  sparic 
Of  love,  and  burst  to  a  great  flame.    And  then 


Sir  Launfal  | 

He  aniwcred!  '•  Faircit  lady,  «n  it  plcme 
Your  lovclincii  to  brighten  my  ltd  hetrt, 
Ye  could  not  Uy  upon  it  my  toil 
Too  hard,  too  grievoui.    Gladly  will  I  do 
Your  every  heit,  for  you  renounce  all  men. 
God  grant  that  I  may  lerve  you  evermore." 
And  the   in  gladncii  aniwercd  pledge  with 

pledge — 
Thui  were  the  twain  made  one  in  trueit  love. 

But  time  leti  ever  on  despite  the  joy 
Of  loveri  true.    When  evening  fell  apace, 
She  ipake  him,  laying  thui:  "  Farewell  I  for  I 
Muit  seek  my  queendom  of  the  otherworld, 
Where  thou,  being  mortal,  canit  not  follow  me. 
But  grieve  thou  not.    Henceforth,  whene'er  thy 

heart 
It  filled  with  yearning  love,  I  ahall  find  thee, 
And  thou  ihalt  be  content.  Yet  hearken,  friend  I 
Let  thia  be  deeply  graven  in  thy  loul  I 
The  gift  of  an  immortaPa  love  enwrapi 
One  firm  condition  and  inviolable — 


6     Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
Utter  concealment.    Heed  my  wtming;  elie 
For  ever  ihalt  thou  loic  me,  and  alone 
Long  for  the  love  thyself  hast  rendered  vain." 
Thus  spake  she,  wtming.     Then  bestowed  a 

gift 
Of  wondrous  tort,  t  never  btrren  purse, 
Wherefrom  he  could  not  spend  too  lavishly, 
For  spending  more,  the  more  it  clinked  with 

gold. 
And  when  the  maidens  twain  who  served  the 

fay 
Had  changed  his  rags  for  silken  fabrics  rich, 
There  was  no  comelier  knight  in  Arthur's  land. 
They   supped i   tnd    ftirly   to   his   taste,   mjf 

lords. 
For  lingering  kistei  were  the  tntremttt. 
Then,   for  the   heartless   tun   had   tet,   they 

parted.— 
He  found  a  splendid  steed  where  late  he  left 
His  lorry  nag,  tnd  thus  rode  cityward  t 
Yet  ever  turning  where,  unwillingly, 
He  left  behind  i  lovelinesa  to  dear. 


Sir  Launfal  7 

But  when  at  last  the  tent  fnJcd  from  light, 
Miitrustcd  then  h!i  memory — ny,  and  wept, 
Thinking  it  all  n  dream.    Thus  doubting,  came 
Within  the  city  wolls — and  doubted  not. 
For  ill  his  men,  ill-clad  the  morn,  were  garbed 
In  lavish  guise,  fit  followers  of  a  knight, 
Nor  knew— God  love  us— whence  or  how  this 

change 
And  magic  betterment  had  come  upon  them. 
He,  who  perceived  the  meaning  of  the  change, 
D.-tde  them  make  merry,  counting  not  the  cost, 
For— look  ye!  all  my  purse  aclink  with  gold  I 
And  so  it  was  the  morrow,  and  again 
The  morrow's  morrow—Launfol  never  lacked 
For  gold.    And  spent  it  well,  aiding  therewith 
Many  a  knight  misused,  as  he  hnd  been, 
By  cruel  fortune)  ransoming  those  who  pined 
In  far  captivity  1  clothing  wondrous  well 
The  merry  minstrels  1  sowing  everywhere 
All  without  stint  the  seeds  of  happiness.— 
But  none  there  wai  who  knew  from  whence  this 

came. 


8     Layi  of  Marie  de  Francs 

And  all  the  while,  whenever  ILtunfal  willed, 
Hii  lady  iwiftly  came  from  fairyworld. 

And  10  the  dnyi  flew  by  on  gladiome  wing— 
Midiummer-tidc,  methinki,  wai  come  and  gone. 
Upon  a  morn  a  band  of  ihining  knighti 
Disported  them  within  a  grove  that  grew 
Against  the  ivied  tower  of  Arthur's  Queen  i 
Gawain  the  Courtly,  Ywain  called  the  Fair, 
With  yet  a  score  of  others,  all  renowned. 
And  Launfal,  for  the  change  in  his  estate 
Had  wrought   a  change   in  their  esteem  of 

him— 
Ay,  now  they  sought,  not  shunned  hit  com- 
pany. 
While    thus    within    the    leafy    wood    they 

lay. 

And  lang,  and  merry  made,  the  Queen  released 
Her  casement— looked  upon  them— marked  Sir 

Launfal. 
Then  suddenly  his  courtly  grace  inflamed 
Her  wayward  heart  with  flre  unquenchable. 


Sir  Launfal  9 

Straightway   ihe   called   the  maideni   of  her 

bower, 
The  fairest  and  most  courteous,  and  ran 
Trippingly  down  the  castle  steps  in  haste. 
They  charged  upon  the  barons  with  a  war 
Of  mischievous  eyes  and  merrily  laughing  lips, 
And  soon  the  summer  winds  that  waved  tht 

wood 
Were  fraught  with  whispered  dalliance.    One 

alone. 
Sir  Launfal,  shunned  the  common  pleasnnce,  sat 
Afar  from  all,  more  joyless  for  their  joy. 
So  incomparcd— he  thought— to  his,  were  this 
The  hour  of  tryst  with  her  of  faerie. 
The  Queen  beheld  him  sitting  thus  alone, 
And  drawing  near,  and  sighing,  softly  spake: 
•'  Launfal,  my  heart  is  thine — ay,  only  thine. 
Command  me  as  thy  slave.    For  I,  the  Queen, 
Am  Launfal's  slave  I    Art  thou  mayhap  con* 

tent?" 
But  he  dismayed  cried  outi  "  Lady,  let  bel 
Long  have  I  served  the  King  and  in  ill  faith, 


10    Lays  op  Marif.  de  Franck 
And  ihall  I  now  be  faithlesi  to  him?    Nay, 
Even  the  ihining  «tain  of  luch  a  love 
Tcmpteth  mc  not."     Then  ihc,  with  a  iwift 

rflBe, 
Scarce  knowing  what  ihe  did,  ipat  in  hit  face, 
And  hilling  if  he  held  hit  Queen  in  icorn 
It  wai  not  virtue,  but  bccnuie  he  loved 
Some  other,  called  him  fool— oy,  utter  fool— 
For  where,  ai  far  ai  Rome  and  back  again, 
Wai  lady  fairer  than  King  Arthur'i  Queen? 
Then    Launfal,   mad   with   wrath   and   quick 

deiire 
To  iniwer  ell  the  iniult  of  her  wordi: 
"  Yea,  true  it  ii  I  love,  but  whom  I  love 
Hath  not  her  match.    And  hark  ye  my  boait, 

Queen — 
I  fling  it  in  your  face  for  your  mad  wordi^ 
The  lowlieit  maiden  of  my  lady'i  train 
Yet  far  lurpaiieth  you  in  lovelineii." 
So  ipake  the  angered  knight,  and  ihe,  upiprung, 
Speechleii  from  rage,  goaded  by  burning  ihame, 
Fled  from  before  hii  face,  and  lought  her  couch, 


Sir  Launpal  ii 

Vowing  within  her  heart  never  to  rise 
Until— God'i  name—ihe  fashion  lome  revenge. 

So  when  the  King  at  eventlJo  returned 
From  merry  hunt  and  courting  the  dim  wood, 
She  claiped  hit  kneei,  beieeching  hii  compa^ 

lion, 
Sobbing  that  Launfal  would  have  wronged  her 

—yea, 
Had   sought   to   make   her   faithless   to   her 

lord; 
And  when  in  wrath  she  scorned  hit  suit,  hid 

flung 
Vile  words  and  insult  on  her,  vaunting  him 
Of  one  far  more  desirable,  so  fair 
That  even  the  lowliest  maid?n  of  her  train 
Surpassed  great  Arthur's  Queen  in  loveliness. 
Then  he,  in  rightful  wrath,  for  he  believed. 
Swore  he  would  burn  the  traitor  at  the  stake 
Or  swing  him  from  a  gallows'tree,  and  sent 
Three  barons  who  should  haste  and  summon 

him 


la    Lay8  of  Marie  de  France 
Before  the  assembled  court  to  make  defense— 
If  haply  for  such  crime  there  were  defense. 

Alas,  Sir  Launfal  sorely  is  bestead  1 
For  now,  although  an  hundred  times  he  criei, 
From  fairyworld  his  love  answers  him  not. 
For   grief    he    swoons    away,    and   when    hit 

sense 
Again  returns,  again  calls  piteously, 
And  curses  heart  and  tongue— and  many  times 
Almost  hath  riven  him  upon  his  sword. 

Thui  found  him  Arthur's  knights,  tnd  turn* 

moned  him 
Before  the  ordered  court.    And  he  complied, 
Uncaring  what  befell  him  there,  fordone 
By  ever  deepening  sorrow,  seeming  scarce 
To  hear  what  my  said,  or  understand 
The  sense  of  aught.     Then  Arthur  cried  in 

wrath  : 
"  Sir   Liegemin— niy,    Sir   Liegelesi,    hiving 

broke 


Sir  Launfal  13 

All    faith— thou   wouldst   have   wrought   thy 

Queen's  disfame; 
Failing  in  that,  hast  shamed  her  with  rude 

boast. 
Methinks  thy  lady  must  be  wondrous  fair, 
That  even  the  mcnne«  maid  of  all  her  train- 
God's    wounds — is    fairer    than    thy    master's 

Queen  I  " 

And  Launfal,  thus  accused,  answered  and 

said 
He  had  not  sought  to  work  the  Queen's  dil> 

fame, 
But  truth  it  was  that  he  had  vaunted  him 
Of  fairer  lady.    Whereupon  the  King 
In  angry  haste  bade  all  his  knights  convene 
For  judging  him.     But  they,  who  much  ei« 

teemed 
Sir  Launfal,  loth  to  judge  him,  made  excuse, 
And  prayed  the  King  appoint  a  day,  and  call 
The  lords  of  his  wide  land  to  swell  his  court. 
This  present  matter  was  too  grave— they  aiid— 


14   Lays  op  Marip.  de  France 
To  be  adjudged  by  few.    Let  Launfal  find 
Good  luretiei.    Then  the  luckleii  knight,  lo  far 
From  home  and  kindred,  had  been  loit  indeed, 
Had  not  Sir  Gawain  come  before  the  King, 
Giving  himself  ond  all  hii  men  at  pledge 
That  Lnimfnl  nniwer  on  the  appointed  day. 
So  Arthur  ipnkc!  "  I  give  him  unto  you. 
But  at  the  riik  of  all  ye  hold  from  me 
Ai  lawful  matter."    They  eicorted  him 
Jo  hit  abodr;  essaying  all  in  vain 
To  comfort  him.    Nay,  inconsolable 
Hit  grief.    Although  they  came  unceasingly 
With  new  attempts  to  liven  his  sad  mood. 
Scarce  could  they  make  him  eat  or  drink,  and 

feared 
Lett  he  go  mad  with  lo  great  suffering. 

Upon  the  appointed  mom  from  near  and  far 
Were  Arthur'i  baroni  gathered  to  hit  court. 
To  them  Sir  Launfal'i  luretiei  rendered  him. 
But  they,  enjoined  to  judgment  by  the  King, 
Wert  troubled,  pitying  him  of  over  leaa; 


Sir  Launpal  15 

Within  their  hcarti  laying— as  lunlight  ihuni 
The  itagniint  fen,  to  thii  man  all  diifame. 
Many  of  them  would  faineit  set  him  frcci 
Yet  some,  fearful  of  Arthur,  were  of  mood 
To  work  him  grievous  ill.  Then  rose  and  spake 
The  Duke  of  Cornwall:  "Sirs,  good  heed  be- 
hooves us. 
The  pity  of  our  hearts  must  not  prevail 
Against  the  law—nor  yet  too  great  regard 
For  even  Arthur's  will.    Right  must  be  done, 
Let  laugh  or  weep  who  may.    Our  King  makes 

plaint 
Of  this  his  vassal,  charging  vile  intent 
Against   the   Queen's   bright   fame;   and,   yet 

again. 
Rare  insolence,  boastings  not  justified. 
Which  set  a  rival  beauty  over  hers. 
Yet— mark  ye— none  accuseth  save  the  King, 
'And  by  our  law  a  man  shall  not  be  judged 
Save  when  two  several  voices  speak  against  him. 
Behooves  us  now  «  wisdom  doubly  w lie- 
To  Arthur  loyalty  is  due,  and  yet 


i6   Layi  of  Marie  dr  France 
To  Launfal  juitice.    Trench  we  the  knot  thuii 
Let  Launfal  luinmon  hither  whom  he  lovei, 
And  if  it  lo  appear  he  boaitcd  not 
Unjuitly  of  her  beauty,  be  he  free, 
For  thui  he  will  have  proved  that  he  ipake  not 
To  slander  the  high  Queen,  but  through  hit 

love. 
But  elie,  let  him  be  cait  from  Arthur*!  court, 
And  ever  live  dishonored  in  mcn'i  eyei." 
He  ipake,  and  all  were  in  accord,  and  bade 
Sir  Launfal  summon  her  he  loved.    Uut  he, 
Scarce  making  answer,  moaned  yet  deeplier— 
Hath  he  not  called  her?  ay,  without  all  cease? 

And  so  the  King,  deeming  him  guilty,  urged 
To  speedy  judgment,  for  the  incensed  Queen 
Ceased  not  from  praying  Launfal's  punish* 

ment. 
Wherefore  the  lords,  compelling  their  slow 

tongues. 
Were  even  passing  sentence,  when— behold  I 
Two  miideni  rode  within  the  palace  hall 


Sir  Launpal  17 

On  loftly  picitig  pslfrcyi  richly  trapped, 
And  both  were  crimson-rohcd  in  coitly  silki, 
And  buth  of  benutcoui  mien.     And  Gnwaln 

then, 
LeapinR  to  Lmuiftl  where  he  lit  «lone, 
Unmindful  for  hit  grief  of  all  that  happed, 
Dade  him  lift  up  hit  eyei  and  be  of  cheer— 
For  one  of  thcic  10  fair  ii  doubtleii  the 
Whom  thnu  hoit  vaunted.    He,  scarce  looking! 

"  Nny, 
I  know  thcRe  maidcni  not,  nor  underitand 
I'heir  coming  or  their  going."    Out  the  twain. 
Advancing  through  the  throng  of  wondering 

knighti, 
Stood  from  their  iteedi  before  the  diiii  and 

ipnke; 
"  Who  bringeth  light  from  darkneii,  right  from 

wrong, 
Preierve  thee,  Arthur.    We  entreat  of  thee 
A  lodging  for  our  lady,  who  thli  eve 
Deiireth  harborage  within  thy  walli." 
And  thii  King  Arthur  granted  willingly, 


i8    Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
Bidding  escort  them  where  they  might  repose 
From  toil  of  travel,  and  await  their  dame. 

And  then  the  King  demanded  once  again 
His  barons'  judgment,  crying  he  was  wroth 
For  such  delay.    But  they  made  answer,  "  Sire, 
Doth  not  the  wonder  of  such  loveliness 
Excuse  our  slow  decision?  " — Then  once  more 
Their  voices  rose  in  ever  new  debate. 

And  while  they  tarried,  all  unwilling  still 
(To  judge  Sir  Launfal,  other  maidens  twain. 
Amount  of  gently  ambling  Spanish  mules, 
Rode  before  Arthur's  throne — of  fairest  mien — 
Yea,  fairer  than  the  twain  who  erstwhile  came. 
And  then  again  the  judges  were  rejoiced. 
Thinking  that  one  of  these  is  Launfal's  love, 
Who  now  hath  come  to  save  her  lord  from 

shame. 
And  Gawain  criei,  "  L4iunfil,  for  God's  iweet 

love, 
Of  these  two  dimieli,  fair  beyond  ill  word, 


Sir  Launfal  19 

Which  i»  thy  Udy?     Speak  I"     But  Ltunftl 

looked— 
And  answered,  "Nay,  I  know  these  maideni 

not." 
And    they    alighted    meanwhile,    and    bowed 

low 
Before  the  King,  and  all  who  stood  about 
Whispered    each    other    there    was    none    so 

fair 
In  all  the  court— not  saving  the  high  Queen. 
The  elder  spake  in  accents  sweet  and  low 
As  woodland  stream  :  "  O  gracious  King,  pre* 

pare 
Against  our  lady's  coming,  who  desires 
To  treat  with  thee  on  matter  of  concern." 
And  Arthur,  ever  courteous,  welcomed  them, 
Bidding  the  servants  tend  their  shining  mules. 
And  sprightly  squires  escort  them  where  abode 
The  twain  who  came  before.    But  then  again 
Reproached  his  ever  hesitating  lords. 
Crying  that  there  had  been  enough  delay, 
And  more  would  be  an  insult  to  his  Queen. 


80   Lays  of  Marie  de  France 

So  now  at  bit,  though  none  leu  loth  ind 
ilow, 
The  judgci  nceJs  muit  vote,  nnd  spcok  the  word 
To  banish  Launfal  from  the  land,  and  crush 
The  hope  of  name  nnd  fame  for  aye.  But  hold! 
Up  through  the  city,  through  the  palace  gate, 
And  into  Arthur's  hall  before  the  throne, 
A  maiden  rides— fairer  than  all  the  world. 
A  milk-white  palfrey  carries  her,  and  limbed 
More  daintily  than  favored  steed  of  king. 
Nor  is  there  king  so  splendid  he  might  buy 
Its  trappings  save  he  sold  or  pledged  his  landi. 
And  she  is  robed  in  fairest  linen  white 
Loose  clasped  about  her  shoulders  whiter  itill— 
Whiter  than  snow  new-fallen  o'er  the  trees. 
Lovely  her  face,  with  radiant  eyes  of  gray. 
And  laughing  lips — yea,  every  lineament 
More  exquisite  than  iculptor  ever  wrought; 
Her  eyebrows  bending  as  a  lissome  bow, 
Her  hair  acurl  and  yellow — threads  of  gold 
Would  not  outshine  those  tresses  in  the  lun. 
Upon  her  wrlit  li  perched  i  ipirrow*hawk, 


Sir  Launpal  ax 

And  after  her  a  comely  «quire  controls 
A  greyhound  in  the  leash.  Thus  she  draws  near, 
And  through  the  city  hnsten  young  and  old 
To  feast  their  eyes  upon  her,  yet  more  fair 
Than  ever  fancy  imaged  Venus  to  them. 

Stately  she  rode  among  the  gathered  lords, 
And  there  was  none  so  cold  whose  heart  beat 

not 
The  faster  for  her  beauty— nay,  not  one 
Of  all  the  court  who  hnd  not  leaped  and 

laughed. 
Had  she  enjoined  upon  him  toil  or  pain. 
And  those  who  loved  Sir  Launfal  were  rejoiced, 
And  bade  him  be  of  cheer  and  lift  his  eyes — 
**  Of  all  fair  women,  lo,  the  fairest  comes  I  " 
And    Launfal  —  hearing  —  seeing  —  hardly 

breathed, 
And  felt  the  hot  blood  course  his  veins,  and 

cried 
"  My  love  I"  and  then  again  "  My  lovet  "  and 

then 


aa    Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
"  Now  care  I  not  whether  I  die  or  live. 
Thou  hast  forgiven.    Yea,  I  see  the  light 
Of  thy  dear  eyes,  and  all  my  heart  is  healed.*' 

And  she,  advancing  through  the  palace  hall- 
No  fairer  creature  ever  entered  there — 
Stepped  from  her  horse  before  the  King,  and 

stood 
Where  all  might  look  upon  her.    Then,  when 

all 
Had  looked,  and  in  their  eyes  she  read  their 

praise 
And  knew  their  hearts  were  won,  she  spake  and 

laid  : 
"  Arthur,  give  ear.    And  give  ye  ear  who  make 
King  Arthur's  court.    I  whom  ye  look  upon 
Once  loved  Sir  Launfal.    Me  before  this  court 
Hath    been    accused    of    crime    against    the 

Queen.— 
The  Queen  hath  lied  I    He  loveth  me  too  dear 
For  other  love.— Ai  for  hit  bout,  my  lordi, 
It  il  not  I,  but  ye,  should  make  award 


Six  Launfal  33 

Whether  through  me  he  be  ncquit  thereof." 
She  ipakc,  and  all  with  one  accord  adjudge 
That  Launfal  be  exonerate  from  blame.— 
Nor  doth  the  King  gainsay  the  just  decree. 

Then  straight — without  a  word  or  glance  for 

him 
She  came  to  save — she  leaped  where  stood  her 

steed, 
And  though  the  King  and  ill  hii  knighti  ei* 

sayed 
To  hinder  her,  entreating  her  to  stay, 
Heeded  them  not,  but  like  a  lightning-flash 
Galloped  amid  the  throng,  and  through  the 

portal. — 
But  Launfal,  with  the  iwiftneii  of  sharp  fear 
Lett  he  should  lose  her  alway,  ran  where  rose 
Without  the  palace  gateway  an  old  stone. 
Whence  Arthur's  heavy>armored  knighti  were 

wont 
To  mount  their  iteedi.   Thence  sprang  he,  with 

mad  leap, 


14   Lays  op  Maxib  dr  Fkancb 

Upon  hit  lady'i  pnlfrcy  ii  ihe  fled 

From  out  the  pilsce,  and  the  hurrying  iteed 

Cirrled  the  twiin  twiy  to  ftiryworld, 

To  wondroui  Avilon— lo  the  Bretoni  ling— 

And  nevermore  wai  Launfil  Men  of  men. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  ASH 

My  lortli,  among  the  layi  of  Breton  btirdi 
Is  one  they  coll  "  The  Maiden  of  the  Aih." 
The  tale  it  worth  the  telling— thui  it  riini: — 

In  dnyi  of  old  there  lived  r  valiant  lord 
In  Brittany — the  itory  namei  him  not— 
To  whom  were  born  two  children  at  one  birth. 
Glad  wai  the  lire,  and  yet  not  wholly  glad, 
Until  hi»  dearest  friend  might  share  his  joy. 
A  herald  sprang  to  horse,  nnd  rode  apace 
Through  day,  through  night,  and  came,  and 

cried  aloud: 
"  To  him  thou  lovest,  children  twain  are  given. 
One  shall  be  named  for  thee,  and  pass  with  thee 
The  years  of  youth,  shaping  his  life  to  thine.*' 

So  spake  the  herald,  dropped  on  bended  knee 
Before  the  dais,  where  his  master's  friend 
•I 


i6   Lays  op  Maris  de  France 

And  all  hii  court  were  gathered  it  the  board. 
Then  he  to  whom  the  tidingi  came  thanked 

God, 
Giving  a  goodly  iteed  to  him  who  brought 

them. 
Not  10  hit  wife,  who  lat  betide  her  lord, 
And  likewise  heard,  but  laughed  right  icorn* 

fully- 
For  hen  was  one  of  thoie  envenomed  tonguei 
Which  dart  at  every  chance  for  a  mean  word— 
•'  In  God'i  fair  name  I  I  marvel  much  thy  friend 
Hath  tent  thee  tidings  of  hit  own  dishonor  I 
We  know  full  well  the  true  significance 
Of  luch  a  story.    Woman  never  bore 
Two  children  at  one  birth,  nor  ever  will, 
Except  she  serve  two  maiten  I  "  •    Thui  ihe 

ipake, 

*11ili  itrsngt  luptrMlilen  It  of  rtir  itMltnl  erl|ln. 
ArlilMl*  not  onljr  elttd  Initincti  of  It,  but  hlmwlf  bflltvid 
la  It.  Medirn  Invtiilgiton  find  It  nlll  Armljr  roetfd 
•moni  barbirle  nitieni  of  to*diy.  During  lh«  MIddIt  Aft« 
h  wti  wldt>ipritd,  but  enir  hill  btllirtd  In,  ti  li  ihewa 
hf  Mr  Ii7,  «ftd  by  msnjr  «ih«r  midlavil  iteritt. 


jTS'iSr 


Thr  Maiden  or  tiîe  Ash     a; 

And  though  her  lord  reproached  her,  and  up> 

held 
The  honor  of  hit  friend'i  fair  dame,  the  ill 
Wai  done— the  ugly  rumor  ran  apace. 
And  many,  who  were  ignorant,  believed; 
And  many,  who  were  jealoui,  ihook  their  headi, 
Saying    "  Perchance— we    know    of    stranger 

thingi." 
Whereby  the  mother  suffered,  and  her  lord. 

Yet  were  they  well  avenged,  for  that  itm* 
year 
The  slanderer  gave  birth  to  daughters  twain  I 

Then  did  the  wretched  woman,  crazed  with 
grief, 
Cry  out  upon  herself,  "  What  may  I  do? 
For  ever  am  I  shamed  before  the  world. 
My  lord  and  all  my  kin  will  cast  me  out 
When  this  be  known,  for  I  adjudged  myself 
What  time  I  slandered  womankind,  and  sild 
None  ever  bore  two  children  at  one  birth 


a8    Layi  of  Marie  dr  Francr 

Except  ihc  icrvcd  two  mnntcri.  Now  my  wordi 
Will  be  remembered  for  mine  own  undoing. 
Ah,  they  who  carp  at  othcri  never  know 
When  their  own  wordi,  like  treacheroui  houndi, 

may  turn 
And  tear  them.    Now— would  I  eicape  dii« 

honor— 
I  necdi  mult  »hy  or  one  or  other  babe. 
Yen,  I  would  rather  aniwcr  unto  God, 
Thon  be  for  ever  ihnmcd  before  the  world." 

A  icrvant  itood  beside  her— one  who  loved 
Her  miitrcM  earneitly— and  heord  her  rave 
Of  murdering  one  or  other  child.    Who  itrove 
To  comfort  her:  "  My  lady,  thii  ii  naught. 
Diimiii  your  grief,  for  all  ihall  yet  be  well. 
Give  unto  me  the  babe  that  ye  would  ilay, 
And  ye  ihill  be  delivered  from  «11  ihime. 
For  I  thii  night  ihall  carry  her  afar, 
And  leave  her  it  lome  monastery  door— 
Someone  will  find  ind  pity  her,  pleaie  God, 
And  fetter  her,  ind  love  her  ai  hit  own." 


Tun  Maidrn  op  the  Abii     39 

Thui  ipake  the  girl.    The  other*i  heart  grew 

glad 
With  ludden  hope— yen,  nn  «he  do  thli  thing, 
The  guerdon  ihall  be  rare,     And  10  they 

wrapped 
The  child— n  comely  child— in  linen  white, 
And  bound  n  golden  bracelet  on  her  arm, 
The  rim  o'crlcttcrcd  with  a  foreign  «cript, 
A  jacinth  gleaming  from  iti  yellow  grnRp, 
And  over  all  they  threw  a  lilken  cloth 
Brought  from  Stamboul,  flowered  with  flowing 

icrolli- 
The  precioui  and  fair  tokeni  may  apprize 
Whomever  find  the  babe,  and  pity  her, 
That  the  it  not  of  lowly  parentage. 
At  midnight,  while  the  lilent  cattle  lay 
In  thrall  of  ileep,  the  girl  received  the  child 
From  out  the  mother's  irmi— with  a  huihed 

prayer 
Slipped  through  •  poitern*door  where  ran  the 

roid 
Amid  th«  darkened  village,  and  itraight  camf 


30   Lays  op  Marie  de  France 
Within  the  forcit.    Still  the  ipcd,  nor  stopped 
For  all  the  blacknesi  of  the  deep,  dim  wood, 
Until  at  last  she  heard,  upon  the  right, 
Dogt  baying,  and  cocka  crowing.     Then  the 

knew 
A  town  was  there,  and  turning  thitherward 
A»  speedily  as  she  might  for  her  tired  limbs. 
Descried  against  the  dawn  a  cloister  rich 
And  ample,  lifting  its  gray  walls  and  towers 
And  steeple  unto  God.    In  haste  she  came 
Before  the  gate,  and  laid  her  burden  down, 
And    kneeling,    humbly    prayed:    "Almighty 

God, 
Except  Thy  will  be  otherwise,  let  live 
This  child,  save  her  from  so  untimely  death." 
Then    rising,    looked    about    her,    wondering 

where 
The  child  might  rest  more  softly — lo,  where 

grew 
An  ash-tree  fair,  with  myriad  leaflets  green 
Dancing   on    countless   boughs — and  near   the 

ground 


The  Maiden  op  the  Ash     31 

The   trunk,    four*forked,    proffered    a    roomy 

crotch. 
Straightway  she  ran  and  laid  the  child  therein, 
Commending  her  to  God  nll-powerful. 
Then  fled,  and  through  the  forest  turned  her 

home, 
And  told  her  mistress  all  that  she  had  done. 

That  morn  the  keeper  of  the  cloister  gate 
Arose  betimes.    He  r.-tng  the  matin  bells. 
Lighted  the  altar  candles,  then,  as  wont, 
Drew  back  the  gate.    Lo,  mid  the  leaves  of  the 

ash 
A  fluttering  cloth  of  silk,  all  richly  hucd. 
The     plunder    of     some     contrite     thief — he 

thought — 
A  pledge,  perchance,  of  penitence — and  ran, 
And  found  the  babe  enwrapped  in  the  bright 

silk- 
Still  living.     Thanking  God  therefor,  he  took 
The  bundle  in  his  arms,  and  carried  it 
Right  tenderly  within  the  cloister  walU, 


3»   Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
And    called    i    widowed    daughter,    who,    It 

chanced, 
Wai  nuriing  yet  her  babe.    *'  Up,  girl!  "  cried 

he, 
•'  Bestir  thee,  kindle  me  the  fire,  and  bring 
A  candle  here.— A  child  I    In  the  aih*leavei 
I  found  it.    Give  it  of  thy  milk,  and  warm 
And  bathe  it!"    She,  complying,  suckled  her, 
And  found  on  her  white  arm  the  golden  band. 
This,  and  the  precious  coverlet  of  silk, 
Told  them  the  child  was  not  of  lowly  birth. 
So,  when  the  Mass  was  said,  and  from  the 

church 
Came  forth  the  Abbess— ye  must  know,  my 

lords. 
The  cloister  was  of  nuns— the  worthy  man 
Awaited  her,  and  told  her  what  had  chanced. 
And  when  the  Abbess  saw  the  child,  how  fair, 
How  richly  tired  in  token  of  high  race. 
None  but  herself— she  said— might  foster  her.— 
And  for  the  manner  of  her  coming  to  them, 
The  child  wu  called  the  Mtiden  of  the  Aih. 


The  MAiDiiN  or  tmk  Am     33 

Within  the  cloister  walla  the  foundling  grew 
To  gracious  girlhood,  springing  ns  a  flower. 
The  Abbess,  loving  her,  instructed  her 
In  k11  that  might  befit  a  noble  maid. 
And  clothed  her  ns  the  daughter  of  «  king. 
And  when  from  girlhood  into  womanhood 
She  slipped,  throughout  all  Drittany  was  none 
So  good,  so  fair,  so  gently  courteous. 
Noble  in  mien  and  nobler  still  in  word. 

The  strongest  baron  of  the  country  round- 
He  who  was  lord  of  Dol,  a  man  both  brave 
And  good — heard  of  the  Foundling  of  the  Ash, 
Mow  courteous  she  was,  how  passing  fair, 
And  loved  her  ere  he  saw  her.    Seeing,  loved 
Deyond  all  cure— deeming  her  fairer  still 
Than  he  had  heard,  and  still  more  courteous— 
And  swore  that  he  would  win  her  love,  for  life 
Were  worthless  else.     Swore  It  although  he 

knew 
The  girl  could  never  be  his  wife— the  match 
Were  too  uneven— he,  the  Lord  of  Dol, 


34   Lays  op  Marie  de  France 
Unto  I  nameless  foundling!    It  were  vain 
To  seek  his  vaisals'  sanction.    So  he  choked 
The    murmurings   of   his   conscience,   holding 

her 
Too  dear— and  yet,  perchance,  not  dear  enough— 
To    yield    her.— Yea— but    how    to    win    her 

though? 
For  if  he  came  again  and  yet  again. 
The  Abbess  might  mistrust,  and  jealously 
Protect  the  maiden  from  him — thus  her  love 
Were  lost  for  ever.    Yet  he  found  a  way— 
For  love  is  never  long  perplexed— he  sent 
A  letter  to  the  Abbess,  telling  her 
He  fain  would  give  the  Church  of  his  broad 

lands 
And  of  his  goods.    For  oftentimes— he  wrote— 
His  soul  grew  wearied  of  this  turbulent  world. 
And   longed    for    refuge    somewhere,    to   he 

made 
This    gift   of   land   and   goods,   truating   to 

gain 
A  lort  of  right  of  city  In  the  doliter. 


The  Maiden  of  the  Ash     35 

The  Abbess,  for  the  gift,  right  willingly 
Accorded  him  the  freedom  of  GoH'i  house.— 
And  mnny  times  that  year  the  Lord  of  Dol 
Came  to  seek  refuge  from  the  turbulent  world. 

And  thus  he  wooed  the  Maiden  of  the  Ash 
Until  he  won  her  love.    Then,  when  he  knew 
She  loved  him,  said  to  her:  "  Away,  dear  heart, 
Lest  we  be  hindered.    Once  our  secret  known, 
Mine  eyes  would  never  look  on  thee  again." 
And  she,  who  loved  him  dearly,  gave  consent. 
And  fled,  and  followed  him.    But  took  away, 
Of  all  her  precious  store  of  ornament 
And  rich  attire— gifts  of  her  foster-mother- 
Only  the  bracelet  and  bright  cloth  of  silk, 
Mer  own  of  right — had  she  not  often  heard 
The  story  of  her  coming  to  the  cloister? 
Thus  gave  herself  the  Maiden  of  the  Ash 
Unto  the  Lord  of  Dol— and  all  his  house 
Soon  loved  her  gentle  grace,  and  her  kind 

words, 
Bestowed  with  equal  courtesy  on  ill. 


36    Lays  op  Mariu  de  France 

Long  time  they  lived  together  happily, 
Until  the  baroni  of  the  country  round, 
They  who  owed  /ealty  to  him  of  Dol, 
Degin  to  murmur,  laying  they  were  doomed, 
If  he  should  die,  to  lerve  a  low-born  matter — 
For  whence  hath  come  thii  woman  of  the  Ash? 
They  haraiicd  him,  entreating  he  should  take 
A  wife  of  noble  birth,  and  put  aside 
The   other.    I'hen,    when    grumbling   naught 

availed, 
Tlireatening  followed:  "Well  and  good,  yield 

not — 
But  forfeit  then  for  aye  our  loyal  love." 
Thus  was  the  knight  of  Dol  enforced  to  choose 
Twixt  losing  her  he  loved,  and  bringing  war 
Into  his  lands.    No  easy  choice,  for  who 
May  carelessly  bring  cruel  war  on  those 
Who  trust  in  him  for  peace  and  happiness? 
Therefore  he  yielded,  bidding  bring  a  wife 
After  their  own  hard  hearts.    "  Fair  Sire,"  they 

laid, 
"She  la  already  found;  she  dwells  not  far. 


The  Maiden  or  the  Ash     37 

An  only  child — ergo,  much  land  to  boot. 
Hard  they  call  her— truly,  for  the  Aiih 
A  good  exchange  1  doth  not  the  har.cl  bear 
A  taity  fruit?  the  ash'tree  bcareth  none  I" — 
Coaric  pleasantry,  uniaid  an  they  had  known 
The   Maiden   of   the   Ash— and   thence   they 

turned 
In  laughter,  having  let  the  marriage  day. 

But  when  the  Ash-tree  Maiden  knew  of  thii 
She  wavered  not,  nor  let  the  deep  pain  well 
To  her  gray  eyei,  remembering— gentle  heart — 
The  happineii  which  he  had  given  her, 
Rather  than  holding  him  accountable 
For  happiness  which  fate  had  snatched  away. 
But  all  the  household  of  the  Lord  of  Dot, 
From  knight  to  page— even  the  serving-men— 
Wept  bitterly  that  they  must  part  with  her. 

Upon  the  appointed  day  the  Lord  of  Dol 
Summoned  his  liegemen  all.    And  a  gay  throng 
Of  knight!  ind  ladles  brought  the  chosen  bride  ; 


38    Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
Her  mother  with  her,  happy  for  her — yet 
An  undertone  of  trouble  in  her  laugh, 
For  the  had  hcnrd  how  dearly  he  of  Dol 
Had  loved  the  Maiden  of  the  Ash,  and  feared 
He  loved  her  itill,  and  that  their  lastinB  love 
Might  work  her  daughter  grievoui  harm.    So 

thought 
The  mother,  planning  how  she  might  persuade 
Her  daughter's  lord  to  marry  a  good  man 
With  her  he  put  aside,  for  thus— «uid  she — 
We  should  be  rid  of  her— and  suddenly, 
Amid  the  joy,  and  ringing  wedding-bells, 
A  girl  of  wondrous  beauty  and  sweet  grace 
Ran  toward  her,  blithely  welcoming  her,  and 

held 
Her  stirrup  while  she  stepped  from  olT  her  iteed. 
Partly  because  she  felt  It  In  her  heart, 
And  partly  for  the  wonder  in  the  eyei 
Of  thoie  who  stood  about,  the  lady  knew 
That  thii  wai  ihe—the  Maiden  of  the  Aih. 
And  whom  i  moment  gone  the  feared,  he^ 


Thr  Maiden  op  thf.  Ash     39 

She  loved.   Would  the  had  known,  and  her  own 

child 
Had  never  come  to  darken  luch  a  heart. 

At  noon,  with  solemn  pomp,  the  Lord  of 
Del 
Wat  married  to  n  maiden  of  high  race. 
Hit  own   Archbishop  joined  the  twain,   and 
blessed  them. 

And  while  the  guests  made  merry,  the  Ash- 
tree  Maid 
Was    steadfast    in    her    will    to    serve    her 

master. 
Calling  the  chamberlains,  she  bade  prep.ire 
The  marriage  couch,  and  watched  them  leit 

they  shirk. 
And  when  they  spread  a  linen  coverlet. 
Was  wroth,  saying  that  it  was  hardly  meet- 
But  hers  was  meet— and  brought  her  cloth  of 

iilk 
And  spread  it  over  all,  esteeming  thus 


40   Lays  of  Marif.  df.  France 

To  do  her  utmost  for  the  wedded  twain— 
Sive   the  Archbiihop,   none  might  bleu  the 
couch. 

And  when  the  marriage  couch  wai  thui  pre- 
pared, 
At  nightfall  came  the  mother  to  the  room, 
Bringing  her  daughter,  bride  of  him  of  Dol.— 
But  hirdly  entered  ere  »he  grew  lo  pnle 
She  teemed  a  ghoit,  and  groped  ai  if  struck 

blind. 
Ay,  for  her  heart  was  fluttering  like  a  leaf. 
With  faltering  voice  she  calls  the  chamberlains: 
"Tell  me,"  she  cries,  "tell  me,  and  in  ill 

faith. 
Where  have  ye  found  that  cloth  of  silk?  "  And 

one: 
"  In  sooth,  my  lady,  'twas  the  Ash'tree  Maid 
Who  threw  It  over  this  which  lies  beneath, 
Deeming  It  fitter.    TIs  her  own,  I  think." 
The  trembling  mother  scarcely  answered  HIrIi 
Motioning  more  than  saying,  "  Bring  her  here," 


^tttftgttéumit  m  iM  •  1^  I  ■•■  '**     I  '  '  •■*  I"  '"1 


TiiE  Maiden  of  tiih  Asii  41 
i  They  brought  the  girl,  and  thus  the  mother 
]  ipake, 

I  Fcveriihly  !  "  Sweet  friend,  tell  me,  I  pray, 
Where  hoit  thou  found  this  silken  coverlet? 
Whence  cnme  it  unto  thee?    Who  gave  it  thee? 
Tell  me,  sweet  friend,  tell  me  who  gave  it  thee." 
And  she  :  •'  Lady,  the  Abbess  gave  it  me, 
My  foster-mother— ay,  and  n  gold  band. 
She  had  them  both  from  those  who  brought  me 

to  her." 
"  Show  me  the  band  of  gold,"  the  mother  cried, 
And  when  she  saw  the  bracelet,  lettered  round 
With   foreign   script,   doubted  no  more,   but 

knew 
The  Foundling  of  the  Ash  was  her  own  child. 
And  lobbing  "Girl,  thou  art  my  daughter," 
•wooned. 

But  when  the  iwoon  had  yielded,  bade  them 
find 
The  maiden'i  father.    Suppliant  she  clasped 
His  kneei,  ind  wept.   He,  understanding  not, 


4a    Layi  op  Marie  dr  Francb 

Eiiayed  to  comfort  her:  "  What  meaneit  thou? 
What  fcarcit  thou  from  mc,  to  cower  thui 
All   hopclciily?    Thou    knoweit   well— God'i 

rood— 
I  will  forgive,  however  thou  hait  wrought." 
And  the,  through  lobi  of  lorrow  and  quick  Joyi 
"  My  lord,  lince  thou  hait  pardoned  ere  thou 

know 
The  fault,  lo  dare  I  ipenk.  Long  yeari  agone— 
May  God  forgive— I  slandered  her  who  bore 
Two  children  at  one  birth.    Alan,  *twai  I 
Who  (uffcred  moit  from  the  empoiioncd  wordi. 
I  bore  thee  daughter!  twain— yet  thou  didit 

know 
Of  one  alone.    The  other  I  cast  out. 
Ay,  but  aome  kindlier  instinct  made  me  fold 
The  cloth  of  lilk  about  her,  thou  didst  bring 
From  over  seas,  and  bind  on  her  white  arm 
The  band  of  gold  thou  gavest  me  that  day 
When  first  I  saw  thee — God  is  merciful: 
The  coverlet,  the  bracelet,  both  are  found, 
And  with  them  our  lost  child.    Lo,  it  is  she 


Tub  Maiden  of  the  Ash     43 

Who  itandcth  here— the  Maiden  of  the  Aih." 
But  he,  in  glndneii  crying  "  God  !•  good, 
Who  hath  restored  her  unto  ui,  ere  yet 
(The  wrong  were  doubled,"  took  her  to  hit 
heart. 

And  when  they  told  the  knight  of  Dol,  he 

reeled 
As  one  that  comei  from  dnrkneii  to  bright 

light. 
Blinded  by  joy,  icarce  able  to  believe. 

Upon  the  morrow  merrily  ring  the  belli. 
Ringing  with  tonei  more  pure  and  true,  it 

■eemed. 
Ringing  for  her  whoie  grief  wai  turned  to 

gladneii.— 
Whom  joined  the  Archbishop  but  yeiternoon, 

ere  now 
Were  sundered,  for  ill— God  wot— had  willed 

it  10, 
Ay,  moit  of  ill  the  liiter,  iharing  thui 


44    Lays  op  Marie  de  France 
A  liiter'i  joy— and  in  after  time,  forsooth, 
She  too  wai  wed  with  one  the  dearly  loved.— 
And  thui,  my  lordi,  in  midit  of  a  great  mirth, 
In  midit  of  iplcndor  unmatched  before  or  lince, 
The  Aih'tree  Maid,  lo  fair  the  teemed  a  queen, 
Wii  joined  in  wedlock  unto  him  of  Dol. 

And  when  the  rumor  of  it  spread  abroad 
Through  Brittany,  the  gleemen  lang  thereof, 
CtUing  the  long  "The  Maiden  of  the  Aih." 


THE  LOVERS  TWAIN 

My  lords,  the  Breton  minitrels  ling  a  lay 
Of  loveri  twain  who  died  fur  utter  love 
Each  of  the  other.    Thui  the  itory  rum:— 

In  yore  agone  there  ruled  in  Normandy 
A  grncioui  King  and  good— unnamed  of  them 
Who  tell  the  tale— whose  Queen,  too  frail  a 

flower. 
Fading  from  life  when  moat  the  yearned  to  live, 
Yet  bore  an  only  child,  a  daughter  fair. 
And  he,  who  teemed  in  losing  her  to  lose 
All  will  for  love,  yet  learned  to  love  two-fold. 
For  in  the  child  the  mother  lived  again. 
But  when  the  current  of  her  childhood  set 
To  maidenhood,  hit  heart  was  filled  with  fear 
Lest  he  might  lose  her  also,  not  through  death. 
But  through  the  natural  law  which  makei  a  girl 
Abandon  them  the  dearly  lovei  for  one 

41 


46    Lays  of  Marie  de  France 
She  lovci  even  more.    How  could  he  part  with 

her, 
Dear  for  henelf,  for  memory  dearer  itill? 
Yet  hung  ever  more  imminent  the  cloud 
Of  hii  alarm,  for  many  a  great  lord 
Besought  her  hand,  and  they  who  made  hli 

court 
Began  to  eye  askance  such  miserliness. 

'  At  last,  when  murmurings  marred  the  fair 

address 
Of  even  truest  friends,  he  cast  about 
For  manner  of  defense  against  their  blame. 
Wondering  how  he  might  contrive  that  none 
Should  even  woo  her— thus  were  he  absolved. 
He  bade  the  heralds  cry:  "  Whoso  would  win 
The  daughter  of  the  King — so  is  ordained 
And  clearly  writ  in  statute — must  be  strong 
To  bear  her  in  hit  arms  up  yonder  hill, 
Nor  ever  rest  him  till  he  reach  the  top."  ) 
But  when  the  news  thereof  was  spread  abroad, 
Many  there  were  esteemed  the  prize  too  fair 


The  Lovers  Twain  47 

For  yielding  tamely.    Yet  were  all  too  weak, 
Hardly  climbing  beyond  the  middle  slope, 
Faint  and  fordone  laying  their  burden  down.— ^ 
The  crafty  King  at  last  lived  unafraid, 
For  none  attempted  more  the  hopeless  task. 

Now  in  that  land  there  dwelt  a  gentle  youth, 
Sprung  from  a  noble  line,  comely  of  face 
And  form,  and  ever  fearful  lest  he  be 
In  knightlihood  outdone.    Who  on  a  time 
Sojourning  with  the  aged  King,  beheld 
And  straightway  loved  his  daughter,  and  im- 
plored 
The  dear  return  of  even  the  hundredth  part 
Of  all  his  love.    And  she,  knowing  his  worth — 
Had  she  not  heard  her  father  praise  him?— 

gave 
,The  love  he  asked;  ly,  gave  an  hundredfold 
More  than  he  asked.   And  many  times  they  met 
And  spake  together  loyal  promises. 
But  ever  hiddenly,  fearing  the  King's  wrath, 
Hoping — God  guide  them — loon  or  late  to  win 


48    Lays  of  Marie  on  France 
Fivor  and  countenance,  sayin;;  each  to  other 
'Twcre  better  to  endure,  deferring  hope, 
Thin  hiite  impatiently,  and  lo  loic  all. 

But  who  may  brag  of  patience  when  true  love 
Torturei   without   all   ceaie?     The   youthful 

knight, 
At  lait  too  lore  oppresied,  besought  the  girl 
(To  flee  away,  to  abandon  all  for  him. 
Crying  that  he  could  bear  hii  lufTcring 
No  longer,  aniwering  it  were  vain  cntrear 
The  obstinate  King— not  his  the  strength,  ilii, 
To  cirry  her  so  far.     But  she  replied: 
"  Dear  love,  I  know  thou  art  not  amply  strong 
To  reach  the  goal  unreached  by  older  men? 
But  if  I  flee  with  thee,  abandoning  him 
Who  alway  held  me  dear,  and  whom  I  love 
Second  to  thee,  what  should  I  gain— or  thou? 
For  In  destroying  thus  his  happiness, 
I  should  destroy  mine  own— ay,  also  thine. 
Hold  we  to  other  counsel,  leu  unworthy, 
(jn  fir  Salerno,  whence  my  mother  cime, 


Til r.  LovRRs  Twain  49 

Still  dwclli  her  elder  liitcr.  I  have  heard 
My  kinimen  praiic  her  wondroui  mattery 
Of  healing  art.  )  She  knowi  the  power  and 

use 
Of  every  root  and  herb.    Go  thou,  dear  love, 
With  thcic  my  letter!  leek  the  ancient  dnmc. 
(Tell  her  our  plight,  and  our  fond  hope  deferred, 
And  the  will  give  thee  potions  strangely  made, 
Whereby  thy  strength  shall  be  increased  ten- 
fold.^ 
And  when  thou  comest,  thou  ihalt  isk  the 

King 
For  his  dcitr  child,  and  he,  deeming  thee  weak 
After  the  full'Strengthed  men  who  tried  and 

failed, 
Will  laugh,  and  the  more  presently  accord 
The  hard  ordeal.     And  thou  shalt  take  the 

Nor  fail,  God  willing,  to  achieve  thy  bride.*'— 
And  he,  hearing  her  counsel,  leapt  for  joy. 
That  night  they  parted  glad  with  freshened 
hope. 


50    Lays  of  Makie  de  France 

Unto  his  castle  turned  the  youth,  and  straight 
Harnessed  his  palfreys,  henped  with  a  rich  store 
Stout  beasts  of  burden,  laid  upon  his  limbs 
Fair   garments,    lined   his   purse   with   yellow 

gold. 
And  chose,  to  be  companions  of  his  way, 
Of  his  true  men  the  truest.    Tarrying  not 
They  rode,  and  after  many  a  wearying  stage 
Attained  to  far  Salerno,  where  they  found 
The  practiser  of  healing  art.    And  she, 
Reading  his  letters,  gave  him  welcome  glad. 
And  kept  him  with  her  many  days,  and  swelled 
The  volume  of  his  strength  by  dexterous  drugs. 
Then  furthermore,  when  his  return  was  ripe» 
Placed  in  his  hands  a  vial  dearly  filled, 
For  be  he  never  lo  o'crworn,  even  near 
To  death,  let  him  but  drink  that  draught,  ind 

loi 
A  wondrous  vigoti  coursing  the  dull  veini 
And  impotent  bones,  shall  make  him  strong  once 

more.— 
And  he,  not  thankleii,  took  the  tiny  flaikt 


The  Lovers  Twain  51 

(Then  turned  him  back  toward  France  and  hit 
dear  love. 

Nor  tarried  in  hit  caitlc,  but  with  trust 
In  that  new  strength  hastened  before  the  King, 
Boldly  claiming — ny,  sooth — the  rude  ordeal, 
And,  prospering  in  this,  his  daughter's  hand. 
The  King  refused  him  not-— though  chiding  him 
For  so  great  pride  and  mad  temerity, 
To  hope  for  happier  issue  where  had  failed 
So  many  itronger— and  set  apart  a  day. 

[  Upon  the  appointed  morn  from  far  and  neir 
Were  come  the  liegemen  of  the  King,  for  so 
Had  he  commanded,  shrewdly,  with  Intent 
That  all  should  sec  the  madness  of  a  man 
Who  vaunted  him  of  might  for  the  rude  task- 
Thus  were  his  treasure  itfe.    And  when  the 

plain 
Was  thickly  darkened  by  the  curious  throng, 
In  light  of  all  he  bide  the  Impatient  youth 
Riiie  in  hli  arms  hit  burden— and  awiyt 


5a    Lays  of  M  a  rip.  pp.  Franc  p. 

lie,  nothinjf  loth,  obeyed — but  ere  he  leapt 
Where  rose  the  arduoui  path,  laid  in  her  hand 
All  lecretly  the  vial  of  wondroui  charm. 
Then  climbed  with  rapid  stridei,  ihc  clinging 

to  him 
Light  as  a  feather— hardly  weighing  more 
In  veriest  truth— through  fasting  many  days 
With  hope  to  aid  her  lover;  ay,  that  mom 
Laying  her  lightest  silks  on  her  fair  limb». 
And  yet  so  steep  the  path  her  provident  heed 
Availed  him  naught,  for  midway  of  the  slope 
She  felt  his  speed  and  hurrying  steps  abate, 
And  cried  in  fear:  '*  Drink  of  the  draught,  dear 

love. 
Thou  tirest;  drink,  and  find  new  strength."  But 

he: 
"  I  need  It  not,  fair  friend,"  for  he  was  mad 
With  all  his  joy,  mistaking  love  for  strength, 
Thinking  to  win  his  bride  unhelped  by  aught 
Save  his  own  itrength,  and  so  refused — ala»— ^ 
All  other  aid.    Ay  truly,  made  pretense 
Of  f«tr— if  he  ihould  ilick  hit  pice  to  drink— 


Till'.  LovKRS  Twain  53 

That  lomc  of  those  who  watched  from  the 

thronRcd  plnin, 
Deeming  him   faint,   would  ihout  encournse» 

mcnt, 
And  some  would  hantcr,  thus  bewildering  him 
With  counter  criei— far  safer  not  to  drink. 
Dut  as  he  climbed  she  felt  his  vigor  ebb 
Like  life-blood  flowing  free  from  a  wide  woundi 
And  oftentimes  he  faltered,  almost  fell. 
(And  she  Implored  unceasingly  1  '*  Drink,  drink, 
And  find  new  strength.'*    Dut  he,  relying  still 
On  strength  not  strength,  but  sprung  from  utter 

love. 
Still  cried  her  nay,  and  reached  the  crest  it 

last.- 
There,  victorious,  laid  his  burden  down. 

Victorious  ?— Ay,    my    lords,    but    all    for 

naught. 
Life,  like  t  harp'String  stretched  too  tightly, 

snapped 
In  twiin.    He  fell,  and  God  received  his  soul.  | 


54    La  va  of  Marie  d&  Trancb 

Then  ihe,  thinking  him  iwooned,  kneeled  by 
hit  tide, 
Purpoiinff  now  tt  Uit  to  employ  the  draught 
Of  wondroui  power,    In  vain  I  for  he  lay  itill; 
Nor  ipokc,  nor  opened  hii  dear  cyci;  and  then— 
0  God  of  heaven— she  knew  that  he  wai  dead. 
Never  wai  pain  more  poignant,  never  teari 
More  true,   Madly  the  flung  herself  beiide  him, 
Holding  him  closely,  killing  many  timet 
Thoie  cyci  and  lipi  which  aniwcrcd  not  again. 
I  Then  suddenly  the  lorrow  pierced  her  heart 
Like  to  a  poiioned  knife— and  thui  the  died.  ) 

And  to  thii  day  the  hill  whereon  they  died, 
And  where  they  reit  forever— ay,  the  King, 
Too  late  yielding  her  unto  him  the  loved. 
Upon  the  hilUtop  laid  them  in  one  grave- 
ls called  the  Mountain  of  the  Lovers  Twain,  "t 
9       9 

But  where  her  faltering  hand,  my  lordi,  had 
dropped 
The  flask,  letting  the  potent  liquid  flow 


The  Lovbki  Twain  55 

Upon  the  earth,  1  flower  fair  upiprsng, 
And  ipreid  idown  the  pith  which  he  hid  trod. 
Whereof  ire  brewed— lo  ting  the  Breton  gle^ 

men— 
Philtert  unfailing,  fraught  with  truest  lora. 


i  .. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Tilt  fullowlng  blbllngriphlcal  noln  irf  iddtd  for  tht  bfnt> 
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I'htrt  il  no  bfiicr  way  of  cnirrlns  iipan  ilit  itudy  of  tbt 
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17 


58  Bibliography 

Tht  following  bibllogriphy  conitltutei  an  cndfivor  to  lilt 
•II  booki  ind  irilciti  (Including  Importint  rtvltwi)  con- 
cerning Marie  and  the  lo-calltd  "  Narrative  Layi,"  which 
hire  been  written  ilnce  the  publication  of  Warnke'i  edition. 
It  doei  not  include  booki  or  ariiclei  dealing  lolely  with  the 
Fablei  or  the  Purgatory  {Dit  Fabtin  dtr  Mar'xi  it  Frantt, 
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On  the  Subject  ■•  ■  Whole* 

O.  GaâaiR,  Crundriii  itr  Rtmaniifhrn  P/iiltlopit,  II,  Brite 
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L.  FoULlT.  The  following  articlee  by  Profeiior  Foulet  deal 
with  variou»  mattrri  connected  with  Marie  and  the 
Narrative  Lays;  taken  together,  they  coniiitute  a  moit 
valuable  work  on  the  «ubject  ai  a  whole:  ZRP.,  XXIX 
(1905),  i9-5«,  a9J-î»ï.  reviewed  in  R.,  XXXIV  (1905), 
479-410,  and  in  R..  XXXV  (190e),  1J7;  MLN.,  XX  (190$), 
109-111;  MLN..  XXI  (I90«),  4«-5o;  ^f^P-  XXX  (190O, 
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(190»),  97-110;  ZRP..  XXXII  (190»),  I6f-i8j,  a57-»«9.  re- 
viewed in  R..  XXXVIIl  (1909),  161  and  46};  RF.,  XXII 
(1908).  599-6*7- 

G.  Paws,  La  Liitirature  Françaiu  au  Mojtn  Aft,  jd  ed, 

•  Under  each  head  titlet  are  listed,  unie»  for  otrvloo»  reaaom,  In 
ehronologrical  order.    The  abbreviations  used  are  as  follows  : 
KJ.  =  Kritiscker  Jakrtsbericht  ibtr  die  FvrltckritU  dtr  Rtmm. 

Hischen  Pkilologii- 
LGRP.  =  LittraturbUtt  fUr  Gtmunttckt  mnd  Rtmanttth*  Pftilê' 

logit. 
MLN.=  Modem  Languagt  /fetes. 
MP.  =  M»dtm  PkHology. 
PMLA.  =  PuMcatioHs  »/  tke  Modem  Lanpiagi  Association  rf 

America. 
Jt.  =  Romania, 

MF.  =  Romamisckt  Portekmnftn. 
RLR.  =  Rnm*  des  Langues  Romanes. 
ZRP.  =  laitstkrift/Br  Romanisekt  PkiUtogi*. 


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page  394. 
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tlifhfH  Lilffatur,  Halle,  190J.    Paget  J9l-404' 
H.  Maynaoier,  Thf  Arlfiur  of  Ih»  F.ngtith  Poets,  Boieon  and 

New   York,   1907.     Page»   51-67. 
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LXII  (July-December,  1907),   ioo)-iot}. 
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In  AV.,  VII!,  II,  a«i-a«5.    A  bibliographical  eiiay. 
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In  KJ.,  VIII,  II,  )ai-)j6.    A  bibliographical  eiiay. 
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63  BlULIOGRAPIIY 

fifff  »f  Ifit  Sarrntlvt  /Irl,  In  Id  Rrlalltn  I»  tht  Brtltn 
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T«xti,  TraniUtloni,  and  Retelllnii 

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■  re  Culgemar,  L«  Fraiine,  Lee  Uoui  Amani,  Yonec, 
LaQitlc,  Clilevrefuell,  and  Ellduc. 

Auci  Krmp-Wilcii,  Tht  Lay  of  Elldaf,  In  Tht  Monthly 
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iranilatlon, 

B.  MoNACi,  Franctit  antlto;  Ktmanat,  Fatlortllt,  Lai, 
Cantonl.  Ballalt,  Rome,  1904.  No.  it  of  the  terlee 
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W.  HilTi,  Sfiitlmannibnth,  }d  ed,,  SlultRart  and  Rerlln, 
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td  éd.,  which  appeared  In  1900,  In  K.,  XXIX  (1900),  i}9> 
I6a 

I.  Maiom,  Antanln  V  Nlroltllt  and  olhtr  Mtdltnal  Ko- 
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and  N«w  York,  ifi»    ProM.    Cmlilni  I'OlitItt  tnd 

Oritlint. 
iMiiL  BuTLiR,  Tain  fr»m  Ikt  Old  frinth,  Beiion  and  N«w 

York,   1910.     Proie.     Centilni  I'OImIm,  Doui  Amini, 

Chiltlvtl,  Elldue,  Mdlon,  Ltl  du  Cor. 
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Livrt,  Pirli,  t9ta    Centilni  tht  Itxl  of  lh«  Ltl  d'Arli' 

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Rarnaud,  with  tranilatloni  of  difficult  wordi  and  phraiii 


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